Chapter 1: The Final Trial
The twin moons hung low over the spires of the Academy, their pale light casting long, silver shadows across the obsidian courtyard. The banners of noble bloodlines swayed in the breeze—each stitched with their own crest, each representing a legacy of steel, conquest, and pride. Among them, one stood taller, its insignia glimmering gold against midnight blue: the sword-winged lion of House Luther.
Jean stood beneath it, quiet as stone, hands wrapped in white dueling tape stained with old blood and new sweat. Her breaths came slow and deliberate, steam curling from her lips in the cold morning air. The arena gates had not opened yet. But she could hear the murmurs beyond—the instructors, the spectators, the aristocratic parasites eager to see which heir of which house would rise, and which would break.
She clenched her jaw and resisted the urge to glance back at the others. They watched her from a distance. They always did. Luther was a name that made people whisper.
"The youngest one," they called her. "The one with no real feats. The one with the ghost eyes."
She didn't care.
Jean Luther was not here to be liked.
She was here to win.
The iron gates groaned open.
From the other end of the arena, her opponent stepped out: Kael Drastin, heir to the Drastin dueling lineage. Taller, older, stronger—Kael had a reputation for breaking bones before swords. His war glaive gleamed in the moonlight, inscribed with old battle runes. Students cheered. Jean remained still.
A voice echoed from above, smooth and detached. Master Rovan, the academy's chief examiner.
"Final Trial: Live Duel. Conditions: Knockout or submission. Magic permitted. Kill strikes disabled. Begin on my mark."
Jean stepped forward, her boots making shallow thuds against the stone. She drew her blade—a long, elegant saber with a grip wrapped in pale leather. It shimmered faintly with a glyph of light etched into the hilt. Not enchanted. Not blessed. Just clean.
Kael sneered. "Didn't think they'd let a shadow daughter take the final trial. Should've stayed home."
Jean didn't answer.
She slid her foot into stance. Her blade rose like breath.
Rovan's voice rang out. "Begin."
Kael roared and charged. The duel began not with grace, but with violence—glaive arcing, wind howling. Jean stepped inside the swing, bent low, and sliced.
Clang.
Sparks flew.
He was fast, but not faster than her mind. She danced—not like a noble duelist trained in showy moves, but like someone who had fought in alleys, training halls, and wilderness duels. Her strikes were precise. Surgical.
Kael adjusted, summoned wind magic—his specialty. A vortex of blades spun around him, and Jean leapt back. Blood trickled down her cheek. The crowd roared.
She tasted it.
And smiled.
She stepped forward again—low stance, saber flashing with a pale light. Then she whispered under her breath, not to Kael, but to something deeper.
"Let me show them," she murmured. "Just once."
And something answered.
A flare of light burst from her blade—not magic from her, but from beyond. A glyph she hadn't cast shimmered in the air, and her eyes glowed faintly gold.
Kael faltered.
Too late.
Jean moved like lightning—three steps, one strike.
The saber stopped an inch from his throat.
His glaive clattered to the ground.
Silence fell across the courtyard.
Master Rovan stood, eyes narrowed, uncertain. "...Victory: Jean Luther."
No one cheered.
Jean stepped back and sheathed her blade.
Only then did the crowd realize what they had seen. Not a prodigy. Not a noble duelist.
But something else.
Something touched by light.
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